


Fake AH Crew Character Vingettes

by hanktalkin



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Author's Favorite, Based On A Panic! At The Disco Song, Blood Kink, Deaf Character, F/F, F/M, Fake AH Crew, Female Jack, Fire, Fist Fights, Gen, Getting Back Together, Hacking, House Party, Implied/Referenced Torture, Minor Character Death, Minor Injuries, Recreational Drug Use, Revenge, Songfic, Swimming Pools, poor fashion choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-17 14:32:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13660980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanktalkin/pseuds/hanktalkin
Summary: some songs from p!ad's death of a bachelor album go v well with gtav-au stuff so here's that





	1. Haywood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **If crazy equals genius**  
>  Then I'm a fucking arsonist   
> I'm a rocket scientist

“Ryan. What the fuck are you wearing.”

Ryan looked up from his book, his reading glasses sliding out of place momentarily as he gazed at Michael in front of him. “What are you talking about? I’m Normal.”

“No. No my good sir you most certainly are not.”

Michael gestured to Ryan’s…well, all of him, getting the full scope of the Vagabond stretched leisurely on the couch. Ryan’s shirt had a large, poorly edited picture of a cat on it, the orange fur cutting off in awkward places into the black of the tee, which matched the one on Ryan’s slippers. They framed Michael nicely when Ryan looked through them.

“What’s wrong with it?” Ryan asked. He had tried hard, he really had: all sans mask and facepaint, his new haircut tucked into a backwards ballcap. You know, like how the kids wear ‘em. “I thought I did good.”

“You look like the first time a nine-year-old gets to dress himself for the first time,” Michael said, pointing at the cat slippers. “Seriously, why the fuck did you pick today to become Cool 90s Kid?”

Ryan set his book down with a disappointed sigh. “Geoff needs me at a ‘casual dinner’ tonight. He wanted, and I quote, for me to look, ‘normal for once in your goddamn life, Haywood’.” Ryan grimaced. “I guess it’s been longer than I originally estimated.”

“No fucking kidding.”

Ryan didn’t have time to ask for fashion advice—not that he thought Michael would be much help—since Geoff rushed into the room and had his attention pulled from his phone to Ryan.

“You’re still not _ready_ , Ryan?” he demanded, his minimal amount of hair still managing to look wild.

“I’m ready!” Ryan protested, getting off the couch. “All my gear’s in the car.”

Geoff’s eyes ran from purple hat to fuzzy feet. He sighed. “Alright. Let’s fucking go then.”

“I’m Normal,” Ryan insisted, though quietly and once Geoff couldn’t hear him.

“ _Hi, how are ya?_ ” Michael said as he passed.

“…I do not understand that reference.”

“Alright. I’ll just go fuck myself then.”

* * *

‘Dinner’ turned out to be a lot less eating and a lot more drinking. The club jostled, hard to see over even with Ryan’s impressive height advantage, and he lost Geoff more than once in the commotion. The Boss wasn’t joining in his favorite pastime however—he was working, schmoozing a few key patrons and hoping the gang they currently worked for wouldn’t notice Ramsey was trying to recruit them right out from under their nose. Ryan was watching his back but-

He was also on cleanup duty.

Slipping into the back was easy in the commotion, the front of the club a little too successful in that sense. One well timed headbutt against a guard and he was out of sight, sliding on his gloves with the familiarity of missing his own skin. They were black, fireproof, and most importantly wouldn’t leave a single fingerprint when his work was done.

The computers in the back were at least seven years old, but that just made them easier. His fingers tapped gently across black plastic, each stroke yanking a thread that unspooled taller and taller at his feet. Numbers reflected back out of his glasses, and by the time he was done there was something wild sitting in his chest. Satisfied.

“Any takers?” he asked Geoff, when he was back in the club with the thrill of espionage still licking his lips.

“Nada,” Geoff said, taking a shot and looking directly ahead. “You?”

“Something like that.” Ryan cracked his neck. “Useful. We should start cleanup though, won’t be long before they notice.”

Geoff finally gave Ryan a sideways glance. “Wanna make it look like an accident?”

A patented Ryan grin was his response. “ _Nope_ ,” he said, popping the p.

* * *

The mask fit over Ryan’s face like it was made for him, skeletal teeth grinning in a way that was a sordid mimic of his own. The glasses reading glasses were folded and tucked into a pocket—with his jacket over his shoulders, everything was right. Perfect. Just as it should be.

Gasoline leaked over everything as he poured, excitement making his hands shake. Geoff had waited until closing time because ‘civilian casualties are bad for business,’ but Ryan didn’t really care, just wanted to see something _burn_. The club, the street, (puddles of water somehow?), just the whole world go up in flames as he flicked open his lighter and touched it down.

Everyone gets what they want in the end.

Both Ryan and the mask smiled as the club went up, Geoff watching idly as he leaned against the hood while the car played a stuttering _Beach Boys_ mixtape. It could have been a perfect moment, an exemplar of both digital and physical destruction-

Except for the fact Ryan had gotten a bit of gasoline on himself during prep.

Fire hopped across the resistant material of his jacket, playfully trailing its fingers like Ryan had stroked the keyboard not too long ago. He laughed, watching it, cocking his head over his shoulder and yelling, “look Geoff! I’m the Ghost Rider!”

And he laughed. He’d keep laughing for a long time after that, so long that Geoff had to come and beat him out with an empty duffle bag because apparently no one knows how to take care of themselves in this goddamned crew. But, for a time, Ryan was just happy to chuckle and watch while he watched the flames climb higher.


	2. Pattilo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then the time for being sad is over  
>  **And you miss 'em like you miss no other**  
>  And being blue is better than being over it

Jack stared at the ceiling, the bedroom fan spinning in a nonexistent breeze. Caiti turned next to her, feet tangling further in the sheets and pulling them off Jack, her breath the only sound besides Jack’s own.

The heat left her feeling paralyzed, like if she so much as blinked the morning would shatter—Caiti would wake, Jack would have to wake too, and the world would go on. Sydney would grab her by the shoulders and shake her until there was nothing left, squeezing her with all the capricious glee of a child who’s gotten a hold of one unlucky frog.

“Hey.” The word at her neck tickled her skin.

“Hey,” she said back, turning just enough to see Caiti waking.

“…You miss them, don’t you?”

Jack closed her eyes. There was the truth, the one that she’d been fighting and was apparently so obvious that even Caiti could see it now. Every day she thought the words _I wasn’t meant for playing house,_ but was too kind to say it, and every day she cursed herself for not fitting in here next to the woman she loved. Back when she was the second most powerful person in Los Santos, she’d always hear the same questions: _that’s her? Really? She’s too soft, too kind, how’d someone like her make it here?_ But they just saw the surface, they couldn’t understand the way here nature called out for bullets and dogfights no matter how warmly she smiled.

Caiti pulled herself closer, pushing away a lock of ginger. Her fingers were gentle, and they betrayed ever memory of pained contemplation when she finally said, “…you should go.”

And finally Jack looked at her. The shock pushed her eyebrows upwards, melting them into the fringe of her bangs. “Just like that?”

Caiti’s eyes were sad, but they held the resignation of a battle she knew she’d lost long ago. “You want to go back, Jack. You can’t tame what’s wild, I know that more than anyone.”

Defeat. Jack couldn’t even do this for her and yet…

One mention of going home and Jack’s body already burned like she’d been shot.

She leaned in to kiss her girlfriend, realizing she’s now on a countdown until one of their kisses would be their last. It was time to stop pretending. Love can change even the worst of people, but it couldn’t change Jack enough.

* * *

America smelled like fish and materialism, and Jack couldn’t get enough.

The first thing she did out of the airport was buy a shirt—tacky, Hawaiian, _familiar_ —and rub the blue fabric between her fingers. It was cheap as hell, a dime a dozen in a town like this, but Jack loved anyway. It reminded her why she came.

* * *

The next week she tore up the town, staring with gas station robberies to get back into it. Any two-bit kid with a gun and a bad attitude could get away with what she did, so she stormed an upscale gentleman’s club—a money laundering front for a small time gang—to feel more alive. That, and to make a few enemies.

It took a month to finally get Geoff’s attention. The FAHC wanted to meet, she’d been informed, ostensibly to come to some sort of alliance between the Old Power and the New Terror. Realistically, Jeremy was perched in the rafters of the warehouse, a rifle trained on her this very second, waiting for when Geoff verified she was a threat.

“So,” Geoff said, his faux casualness obvious to anyone who knew him, “‘The Beard,’ huh? Quite the codename.”

Jack didn’t say anything—Geoff would know her voice instantly, and she still wanted on more minute to watch him, to see how much he’d changed.

“Been quite busy,” he continued voice glancing over her mask, none the wiser to the way she studied him. There were things no one would notice but her: the way his wrinkles were just slightly deeper, the new scars on the left side of his neck…

How much she’d missed him.

She shrugged.

“Listen buddy.” Geoff stopped pacing. “I’m going to cut to the chase. You have three days to get out of town. If you say no, my friend’s going to shoot you right now. And you can take my word for it: he doesn’t miss.”

The opportunity was too good, like blue cotton in soft hands. Jack smiled. “I don’t doubt it,” she said, pulling down her mask and stepping into the best of the warehouse’s light. “After all, he learned from the best.”

“…Jack.”

The way he said it was beyond disbelief, like a dream he’d had so many times he’d begun to doubt every waking moment. But Jack just stood there, smiling as she watched Geoff’s face turn from joy to pain.

“Jack…shit I…you’re back.” But he phrased it almost like a question. Afraid she might rip it all away again.

Her eyes softened, staring across the salt-touched air at her oldest friend. “I am,” she confirmed. “Sorry about the dramatic entrance, but it’s so hard to get an audience with Lord Ramsey these days.”

A joke that fell between them. She could have called. She could have called every day she was in Australia too, but she didn’t and maybe was better for it. She’d healed as much as she’d hurt.

Geoff realized it too, and looked away suddenly. “Fuck…I’m sorry Jack. I said a lot of shit that-”

“We both did.” Flying, hissing, biting words that should have stayed inside. “I want to forget it, forget everything.” She walked forward, and a brief gesture from Geoff let her know that his lookout was backing down. Stopping, she pulled on his wrist until he was clasping her hand. “So. What do you say? Ready to try again?”

Geoff grinned, somehow still sad under all that relief. “Yeah.” He shook. “I am.”


	3. Jones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you wanna start a fight  
>  **You better throw the first punch**  
>  Make it a good one

In the burning daylight, there were boxing gloves and sterile punching bags all over, dozens of public gyms at Michael’s fingertips, every plastic stitch present and screaming to be used. He never touched a single one. By night, Michael left, abandoning the white fluorescent lights of public exertion and descended into the worst of what Los Santos had to offer.

There was a smaller array now that he’d come to the darker side, but Michael had a favored haunt among them—down near 6th St., past the stairs, tell the man that Lionel sent you. The club was dim, foul with old blood and emptied stomachs, but the threat of violence pricked against Michael’s skin like nothing could anymore. The buzzing in his head had become part of his life now, no escape except fighting strangers in the dark until someone gave in. Or died.

He didn’t tell the crew where he went. They could all go to hell.

He put his name down and waited. No one knew him here, no one gave a shit who he worked for or what he could do. They were all equals in this shithole, all ugly reflections of one another—a bunch of fuckups who just wanted fight back. Sitting among them, Michael began to bind his hands. None of that safe, sanitary, gloved bullshit, just hard-packing of bones and muscle, protecting your knuckles by forcing them together. Making those bitches support each other whether they like it or not.

Someone signed up to take Michael on. He climbed into the ring, landing on concrete with a _smack_ , remembering what is was like to have his head hitting it instead of his feet. His opponent was tall, broad shouldered, maybe it a bit more toned than most of the people in the club since regulars usually consisted of streetrats looking for an outlet.

Michael cracked his neck, and squared up.

Fighting here was breathing after drowning. Every twitch of Michael’s feet, every anticipated dodge, and he felt more alive than any day since he’d lost his hearing. He couldn’t rely on explosions or gunfights anymore to get his fix, couldn’t bleed Geoff dry for any chance to get his rocks off when the Boss was so determined to keep him “safe.” He couldn’t heist without comms, couldn’t make deals with comms…every word true, but every time they said _comms_ , Michael understood they meant _your ears_.

A hook caught him under the jaw, and he went down. The buzzing was gone now, knocked clear out of him as he rolled on his side to watch the crowd cheer silently, a collection of grey and brown bugs swarming around him, demanding he either die or make himself useful.

Well. No time like the present. Michael staggered to his feet, spitting a mouthful of blood from when he’d bit his tongue.

Another fist hit him hard, bruising his cheekbone, but he didn’t fall this time. Instead he went back, fighting with every burned fiber in his sorry excuse for a body, the anger boiling in him and boiling _over_ , slamming him forward until the other fighter was down on the ground. Michael waited, daring them to try him again.

They didn’t.

The crowd cheered, bets exchanged hands, and Michael heaved in the center of the ring. But the only thing that mattered now was how sharp everything was, how he was free from that fucking noise, at least for a time. Everything was real now, worth noticing, and that’s what let him see her for the first time.

Lindsay stood among them, her hands together in noiseless clapping, a smirk at the corner of her mouth. She looked like belonged, which was the most jarring fact—he’d never seen her in anything but the nines, so without makeup or heels, who could blame him for missing her in this mess?

He hauled himself out of the ring, pulling on his shirt as he melted back into his fellow degenerates. It didn’t take long to grab Lindsay, pulling on her arm and dragging her further from the lights, only stopping when they were gone from the throngs of people.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, shoving her away from him.

She smiled in spite of, or maybe because of, the fury in his voice. “Here for a good fight.”

His eyes flicked over he lips, watching the words take form. He’d learned, steadily, over the past year, maybe the only thing he’d studied hard in his entire life. Gavin had offered to teach him sign language once upon a time, but he’d refused, the idea of being so being so _obvious_ hurting him like a stone in his shoe. Now he worked overtime, catching meaning and putting the thoughts together in a scrambled mess.

“Did Geoff put you up to this?” he snarled.

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, because all I do all day is suck Geoff’s dick.”

Michael snorted, but chose to believe her. No matter how much of a helicopter Geoff was, he didn’t assign tails to his own people. “Fine. Then why _are_ you here. No bullshit.”

Shrugging, she said, “like I said. I came to watch. No bullshit.”

Slowly, he let the snake inside him uncoil, loosening enough that he started pacing instead burning like a stake. Lindsay was imbedded deep in the tertiary members of the Fakes, essential and proven, but she’d never taken an interest in Michael before. Her presence in this place was a bright red flag in Michael’s vision. At least she wasn’t here to tell him to stop.

“Plus, wanted to check out the new tattoo,” she added suddenly.

Michael stopped pacing, unconsciously rolling his shoulder where the ink still hurt. He’d got it a month ago, here in this club—a stick of dynamite in one year commemoration.

He glared at her. “Don’t follow me any more,” was all he said, before storming out, his fists clenched so hard the tape turned red.

* * *

He thought going to a different club would shake her loose. He was wrong.

“I told you to stop following me,” he said, after finding her outside the ring, hoodie pulled over here bleached hair.

“I never agreed to that.”

He breathed through gritted teeth, but his urge to hit anything was dulled by the post-match euphoria. “I don’t know what the fuck to do with you,” he admitted, and he felt his voice shake. Sometimes, he’d worried he’d forget how to speak all together—one day he’d wake up and not remember the sound of his own voice, how to make words go the right way. One day they wouldn’t be able to find any work he could do and he’d be back on the outside. “I just don’t fucking know.”

“You don’t have to do anything with me,” Lindsay said, and god why did that smile look good on such a bitch. “I can meld. Wallflower it.”

He didn’t say anything. It wasn’t a big deal. And when he got back in the ring, he told himself it was because it didn’t bother him enough to make it one.

* * *

“You don’t have to keep pretending to be a fuckup,” she told him once. It was before a fight, the two of them sitting in the corner of a filthy pit while Michael bound his hands.

He laughed. “Pretending? I’m a high school dropout who’s only off the streets because he tried to mug the right guy. I’m a cosmic accident Lindsay. Don’t try your psycho-bullshit on me.”

“No bullshit,” Lindsay smiled. She said it like a joke, even though it was a decidedly unfunny statement only worth saying for self-referential value.

Michael kept himself from laughing. “Whatever. I’m going to punch some dickwad to keep me from going crazy. Wish me luck.”

He caught her words out of the corner of his eye.

“Alas, I cannot. For you see: I am that dickwad.”

Michael gawked at Lindsay, his foot still half turned towards the pit. “What?”

“I signed up to fight you,” she said, gesturing toward the board. “Thought it looked fun.”

He narrowed his eyes, wondering what angle she was playing now, and knowing no matter what it was it was stupid. “ _You_? You’ve never fought a day in your life.”

“I might surprise you,” she said with a wink, and Michael wondered for a hot second if Lindsay actually knew what she was doing. Then the previous combatants were dragged out of the room, and it was time for the next match to start. “That’s out cue!”

As they circled each other in the ring, Michael took in the full view of her. She was down to her tanktop to match his shirtlessness, her stance wild and unpracticed. A strange energy built in Michael’s chest, the unknown quantity different than fighting a stranger. This was something new, a challenge-

He drew back his fist-

* * *

“You’re a fucking moron.”

Lindsay drew the tissue away from her broken nose in order to look offended. “Hey! Just because I don’t have a lot of stamina doesn’t mean I’m dumb.”

“You walked into _the_ most dangerous fight club in _the_ most dangerous city in the world with absolutely _no_ fucking combat experience and almost died after one punch. You’re a fucking moron.”

She pressed the tissue back to her face and mumbled, “I thought you’d let me win. Like it’d be romantic and shit.”

Michael’s voice spilled out of him, and he wondered if the warmth in his chest was audible. “Idiot,” he smiled softly. “Stupid idiot.”

After Lindsay had regained consciousness, they’d come out here into the alley, the winter chill making the night just cold enough to hurt their lungs. Lindsay had gone through all the tissues in her purse by now, and blood had spilled onto her upper lip again in the brief second she’d taken the pressure away. Now she looked pathetic, bloody nose purple and swelling beneath her hand, her words obscured when she tried to tell Michael something. She said it again, and he rolled his eyes, reaching forward to tug away the gross-ass tissue.

He wasn’t sure when his hand stopped touching hers and glided against her cheek instead. His thumb ran along her lip—wet, sticky—leaving a trail along the side of her face, only stopping when she pushed it aside and leaned into him.

It was the most bitter kiss Michael had ever had, copper running down into his mouth as they pulled at each other’s faces. Lindsay squeaked in pain but shoved into him all the same, the two bodies tender from abuse and cold. Red stuck between them, an open wound in an infected city.


	4. Ramsey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm taking back the crown  
> I'm all dressed up and naked  
>  **I see what's mine and take it**

“Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

Geoff smiled to where Alfredo was half-hanging out of the shadows, and asked, “do you usually take job interviews from ghosts?”

“Is that what this is?” Alfredo shifted, his rifle pushed off his chest only briefly, instead coming to rest on his collarbone once again. “Reminds me less of an interview more of a wake.”

Shrugging, Geoff took a drink of his Sprite—he hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol since his release—and let loose an exaggerated _ahh_. Alfredo remained unimpressed.

“What did you bring me for, Ramsey?”

If one didn’t know any better, one might be impressed with Alfredo’s half-put-together Bad Boy attitude. But the safety was on, and Geoff had what Alfredo needed: a chance for advancement.

“I want you to help me take down Risinger.”

“Risinger?” Alfredo’s eyebrow shot up. “Wasn’t it Salazar’s shtick that put you behind bars.”

Waving his hand, Geoff said, “Salazar’s a fucking sycophant. The plan came all the way from the top, and I’m going to remind Rismonger why he doesn’t fuck with the Fakes. And I’d very much like you to help me.”

There was a flicker in Alfredo’s eyes, one that meant he was considering it. “…Don’t you have a crew for something like this?”

Geoff swallowed, slow, to let the bubbles tickle his throat. “…Not for this.” He made it clear that was as much explanation as Alfredo would get. “Anyway, I’m going to kill Risinger, take back my throne, and show this city that the FAHC is like a wart: it keeps coming back no matter how often you burn it.”

“…That’s disgusting.”

Geoff threw a wad of bills. “That’s for coming along. If we survive, you get the other half, plus consistent contracts from my crew for as long as you want it. We have a deal?”

Alfredo flicked through the cash, his hands leaving the rifle for the first time since Geoff sat down. He stopped after a second. “This is half?”

“Did I say half? I meant that’s the first third.”

A smirk finally touched the mercenary’s lips. “Alright. Let’s go see the high king.”

* * *

Geoff hadn’t wanted the rest of his crew to see him like this—petty, revenge crazed motherfucker whose enemies had hoped he’d die behind bars. He didn’t want Jack’s methodic plans, Gavin’s worried looks, Jeremy trying to talk him out of it. No, this was best. A rampage with someone he could trust enough, but whose funeral he wouldn’t attend.

The door to Risinger’s bedroom slammed open, bodyguard falling before he’d even had time to look. He was the last—the mansion was clear now, nothing in Geoff and Alfredo’s wake but a trail of blood, and even Jon himself was caught in the latest hail of bullets.

His eyes flicked upwards, widening as Geoff approached him.

“Ramsey,” he coughed, blood pooling from his side into the carpet.

“The man, the myth, the legend,” Geoff said, his voice empty.

“You’re supposed to be _dead_.”

“Funny. I was thinking that about you.”

A round shook Risinger’s body, and he fell face first into his own blood. Geoff had wanted to keep things short—he knew if he started there’d be no end, no running out of ways to say _you almost cost me everything_. If Geoff had his way, Risinger would probably have bleed out before he’d even gotten to kill him.

“Feeling good boss?” The way Alfredo said _boss_ seemed to portray exactly how little he saw Geoff as a superior. Geoff ignored it. He was having a nice day.

“Oh yeah. Just peachy.”

“Can’t believe he went down so easily,” Alfredo said, nudging the body with his toe.

“Mortal man in a high castle, Diaz,” Geoff said, walking forward to stand in front to the giant bulletproof window, the view expanding over miles of desert until Los Santos appeared on the horizon like glowing electric colony. “And he forgot Ramsey’s Number One most important rule.”

“Yeah,” Alfredo scoffed. “What’s that?”

Geoff cocked his head over his shoulder, a smile playing over the grooves in his face. “ **Don’t ever die**.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies to Jon Risinger, ily


	5. Dooley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Raise hell and turn it up**  
>  Saying "If you go out you might pass out in a drain pipe"  
> Oh yeah, don't threaten me with a good time

Jeremy’s face burned with that stupid anime blush, the fifth of he’s downed already kicking him hard in the back of the spine as he grabbed another bottle off the closest shelf. He didn’t know whose house he was trashing right now, couldn’t even remember who had invited him here, but as he stood on the closest table and screamed, “ _JUNGLE JUICE!!!_ ” the resounding roar made it clear that he was perfectly welcome.

He tired to take the lid off with his teeth, but, since it was a twist off, he ended up just gnawing at it for several seconds before giving up using his hands. There was another cheer, and he took a swig.

Jeremy blacked out.

With no perceptible difference in time, he was standing in a completely different room, the bottle replaced by a lit cigarette and walls replaced by white tile.

“You know it’s illegal to tamper with privately owned smoke detectors.”

The sudden voice in the small room almost caused Jeremy to fall—off a chair? how long had he been standing on that?—and left him clinging to the top of the mirror for support.

His eyes remained frustratingly unfocused, but he was able to look over his shoulder and see the general shape of a person, a man leaned against the—bathroom?—doorframe.

“There’s trace amounts of uranium in them,” the man said, picking up the dropped explanation. “Law was put in place after some kid in Michigan almost built a nuclear bomb.”

Jeremy struggled, both for balance and to place the stranger’s face through the alcohol induced haze.

The man continued to look at him, then gave up that Jeremy would recognize him on his own. “I guess I should introduce myself. Name’s Haywood.”

The world seemed to snap, and Jeremy finally got everything into place when he muttered, “Ramsey’s Haywood.”

An acrid smile crossed Ryan’s face. “Yeah, that works too.”

Jeremy stumbled off the chair, though immediately wished he hadn’t. Ryan wasn’t short by any means, and the loss of the height advantage made Jeremy feel like he sinking into the floor under the Fake’s gaze. Or maybe that was just the lingering effects of the ecstasy.

“You here to recruit me too?” Jeremy barked sharply. “I guess he wised up and decided to stop throwing Free at me.”

“Actually,” Ryan said, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “ _I_ convinced Ramsey to stop sending him. I knew it wasn’t going to work.”

“Oh yeah?” Jeremy said, doing his best to look Ryan in the eye. “And why’s that?”

“Because you two are too much alike.”

Jeremy snorted, but ended up sucking down his own snot, his drunkenness congesting his face. He spat, and said, “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re hedonists. Adrenaline junkies with poor taste in fashion.” Ryan gestured toward the bathroom sink. “Exhibit A.”

It took another few seconds to refocus his eyes, but after a moment Jeremy was able to place the little white lines set up neatly along the countertop. Oh. Now that he thought about it, he remembered something about wanting to set off the smoke alarm so he could make an exit without having to offer an explanation for “Rimmy Business.” Not his best plan in retrospect, but hey, he was smashed.

“Those uh…aren’t mine?”

Ryan folded his arms. “Dooley. Please.”

“Hey!” Jeremy barked sharply, his drunkenness rearing its ugly head. “It’s _Rimmy_. _Tim_. Do you see this hat?” He jabbed a finger at the white Stetson covering his orange and purple hair. “ _This_ is my _crown_! I am the _king_ of the heights you bitch!”

“You’re the king of two square blocks,” Ryan pointed out casually. He held up his hand when Jeremy tried to slur out a _fuck you_. “You’re never going to be happy here Dooley. You can play party boy all you like, but I meant it when I said you’re just like Gavin: being cooped up here is going to kill you.”

Jeremy scoffed. Beyond Ryan, the party thrummed with life, _Rock Lobster_ blaring so loud it was barely distinguishable over everybody losing their goddamned minds. The Fake, in contrast, represented only death.

“Forget it Haywood. Doesn’t matter if it’s you, or Free, or Lord Ramsey himself, no one’s making me come back. I’ve _seen_ shit out there, shit you wouldn’t-”

The pain behind his eyes made him stop himself. Whether it was the weird cocktail of drugs or not, he was suddenly too sensitive to memories he’d rather forget.

“Whatever,” he finished. “Just leave me the fuck alone.”

He didn’t want to kill anymore, didn’t care why the FAHC was so intent on making him. He just wanted out of this room, screw the coke-

A hand on his shoulder made him stop. “Dooley.” Ryan’s voice was strangely patient. “…You’re a betting man, right? How about I cut you a deal.”

“What _deal_?” Jeremy said, just wanting another one of these conversations to be over.

“You think you can retire at the rip old age of 25? You can’t. That shit’s going to follow you wherever you go, and tonight I’ll prove it to you. If no one dies by the end of this party, the FAHC will leave you alone.”

“…What sort of fucked up proposal is that?”

Ryan grimaced. “An ironic one.”

Jeremy was about to say fuck it, he’d take the bet. After all, whoever died at a heights _house party?_

Which was the precise though that caused the whole floor to go to hell.

At first he thought he was blacking out again, but Ryan was also stumbling to the sudden movement of the floor. Then something that was most definitely not the sound of the stereo system caused every modernist painting on the walls to rattle.

Ryan’s hand tightened his hand on Jeremy’s shoulder. “…We should run.”

And so that’s how Jeremy found himself, being dragged along by one of the most wanted men in the world, banging drunkenly into every conceivable piece of furniture, and thoroughly inserting himself into the party in the worst way possible. People were starting to act nervous, thought not as much as they should have been, because at that moment the sound of gunfire ripped through the upper floors.

“EVERYONE OUT!” Jeremy yelled. Or tried to. The music was much too loud to be heard over, but folks go the idea.

It turned into a fucking stampede, making Jeremy regret not getting out while he still had a chance. It was too congested now, the gate out the back door now clogged with people trampling each other in their panic.

The ground shook again.

“Explosives!” Ryan warned too late.

Jeremy’s mind was reeling, everything both too slow and too fast. Hide! No, can’t nowhere- Run! Too many people, blocking- Now there was fire behind them, coming from the house and out onto the lawn.

Pool.

They were close, close enough that when he shoved Ryan they both went in, the feeling of consistent gravity replaced by weightlessness and chlorine. The world above was suddenly one bright orange light, and Jeremy could feel the heat even through several feet of water. The flash was accompanied by a BOOM, the house reverberated above them, below them, all around, his lungs screaming but the water above him was practically _boiling-_

A hand around the back of his shirt hauled him upwards, into the smoky air. But it was breathable, and Ryan deposited him on the other side of the pool while he choked in a lungful.

“Wh-wwhugg…” Jeremy managed to splutter. As soon as he realized the immediate danger had passed, he whipped his head around, looking for whoever had been shooting earlier, his hand fumbling for his gun-

His gun, _his gun-_ Of course he didn’t have his gun. He hadn’t carried one since…Shit.

But there was no sign of whoever had torched the house, or any of the surviving guests. There was just Jeremy and Ryan, sopping wet as the roof of the building caved in next to them.

“Did y-you, _know_ about this?” Jeremy managed to spit in between breaths.

Ryan gazed over the yard. “If I’d known it’d be happening so soon, I would’ve skedaddled a lot earlier.”

That was a _yes_. Jeremy swore. “This was all a really elaborate to get me to join your crew.”

Slumping against the fence, Ryan told him, “kind of proves the point though, right?” He watched Jeremy breath, fumble for the gun that wasn’t there, and try to talk himself out of a panic. “No where in this city is safe. The closest thing is having someone to watch your back.”

Jeremy breathed, the sound of the house crackling not helping the drugs or the adrenaline in his system. He didn’t know what to do anymore. Couldn’t hide anywhere. Couldn’t even run.

His hat bobbled to the top of the pool, and he watched it float steadily towards them. “…Vagabond. I’m going to ask you a question.”

“Well alrighty then.”

“What’s got you so invested in seeing me join?”  
  
Ryan blinked, and he must have known that Jeremy wasn’t using _you_ in the general sense. A smirk crossed his lips. “What can I say? I have an eye for talent.”

Jeremy laughed. None of it was funny, but he’d just been fished out his death by a serial murder, so maybe it was okay to have everything be tospy turvy. This was the last man he should trust.

But in this shithole of a city, he was a start.


	6. Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunsets on the evil eye  
> Invisible to the Hollywood shrine  
>  **Always on the hunt for a little more time**

Gravel churned, the jet black Entity pulling to a slow stop outside the villa, its owner making his exit several seconds after its stop. Gavin closed the door with a slam, desert air in his nose, unfiltered sun beating down on him from an endless blue sky. The house was alone in the world, a long escape down Marlowe Drive that bled into highways that bled into wasteland.

He moved, leaving bloody fingerprints on the ebony and more on the keypad, pushing into the quiet paradise to its waiting silence. A duffle bag dropped to the side of the entryway, and he began a search.

Each of the villa’s four bathrooms were his first stops, and he found most of what he was looking for: brown plastic bottle of the stuff that comes in the brown plastic bottle, hand gripper thing-y, black thread…But the needles were all too small. He had to look harder, but looking _got_ harder, and he almost ran out of time before fumbling through the miscellaneous draw in the kitchen and stumbling upon a needle with a large enough eye.

The next forty-five minutes were spent with his back against the sand-colored walls, wishing he had something to bite.

When all was said and done, Gavin pushed himself off the floor, rocking his neck from side to side and thinking he maybe wanted to sit down for a little while longer. But first. Something. Then sit.

His second search of the house was easier, and he was at a net gain on pink swim trunks and a bottle of chardonnay. There was a floaty in the garage, a flamingo, and Gavin placed it down into the gentle lap of the villa’s outdoor pool with as much care as was Gavin-ly possible. Then he changed, not caring when he was miles from any other human, and knowing that if someone did miraculously manage to see him then he had bigger problems.  
  
Gavin lowered himself into the floaty, and drifted away.

Chardonnay spun lazily in the champagne flute (blasphemy, but Geoff wasn’t there to chew him out) and caught rays of sunlight in its form. It was absolutely lovely. Gavin sipped and looked at the absolute flatness around him, soaking in his own bliss, the line along his left side stinging with the moral compromises he’d made along the way.

His phone rang.

Gavin paddled his feet a little, splashing over to where his phone called from inside its mound of abandoned clothes. “Jaaack…” he hummed once he’d gotten a hold.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Jack muttered immediately. Relief poured out the other end, the _thank god you’re not dead_ said is just as few words.

“Sorry I didn’t call,” Gavin told her, trailing his other hand in the water. “Was all a bit of a mess, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” she said, and Gavin could hear the way she pinched the bridge of her nose. “You can say that again.”

“Everyone else alive?” he asked, his voice soft and far away. He felt like he was drifting on sunlight, and if he looked to far or too hard his eyes would become just as bleached as his hair. Instead he closed them, and settled into the comfort of Jack’s voice.

“Now that you’ve checked in, we’re all accounted for.” The water pulled at Gavin’s ankles. “No injuries, either.”

“Ah, wrong on that.” Gavin tried to take a drink of his wine, only to realize he’d dropped it a while ago, the glass now far at the bottom of the pool. Oh well. Someone else’s problem. “I got shot.”

“ _What._ ” Jack demanded in the intonation of _why didn’t you open with that you British fuck?_ “How bad?”

“Real bad.” Gavin frowned, wondering if Jack heard him the same way he heard himself, like a memory of a memory. “Stitched myself up, but lost a lot of blood. I’m in the pool.”

“ _The pool??_ ”

“Yeah,” Gavin said, and cut off Jack as she began to say _Gavin-_ “Don’t worry though. Chlorine’s fine on it and stuff. Disinfects, you know.” His eyes fluttered open again. “But ‘m gunna need a pickup. Don’t think ‘m okay to drive anymore.”

There was soft breathing on the other line, Jack probably already two steps ahead, triangulating the safehouse Gavin had been headed to after the heist. He let her work, watching the world spin as it orchestrated the beginnings of what was sure to be an incredible sunset. He wasn’t in any rush—the Crew would find him.

“Just wanted to have a sit down,” he said by way of explanation.

“Okay…shit just…do that. Sit tight for now. We’ll make it to you.”

A smile tugged at the corners of Gavin’s lips. “Yeah. I know.”


End file.
